


the ghost of you (it keeps me awake)

by kaylin_neya



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 07:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaylin_neya/pseuds/kaylin_neya
Summary: Cardan misses Jude – viscerally, constantly. But almost never more than when he’s called to preside over council meetings.“Isn’t it my council?”Roach hesitates. “Well, yes…technically.”“Then today’s meeting is cancelled. And all further meetings postponed indefinitely.”Roach sighs. “I was afraid you’d say something like that.”





	the ghost of you (it keeps me awake)

Summary: Cardan anticipated the guilt and loneliness that would come from banishing his sensechal-wife from Faerie with no hope of return. What he did not plan for was the inordinate complexity involved in actually _running a kingdom._

Semi-AU, post TWK.

\--

It’s been exactly seventeen days and six hours since Cardan reclaimed his kingdom. Not that any apart from Jude and himself would know the difference. To the rest of Faerie, it must simply appear he’d tired of having a human seneschal constantly involving herself in affairs of the crown. That he’d decided it was better for him to deal with matters directly, rather than through the mouth of a mortal traitor.

It is unfortunate, Cardan grouses to himself, that this is _exactly the opposite_ of the truth.

Cardan didn’t realize until she was gone precisely how many of the court’s operations were run through Jude. She was, judging by the state of her meticulously tidy office, not only obsessively organized but also a micromanager to the nth degree. He hadn’t been back in the castle half an hour before the head of the kitchens had timidly approached and asked for the weekly groceries order.

“The _what_?” 

The hobgoblin bows his head. “Lady Jude – I mean, your late seneschal. She provided the weekly orders for the kitchen.”

Cardan rolls his eyes. “Just order whatever was on the list last week.”

The hobgoblin looks up in surprise. “But what about – ” and then, remembering himself, “I mean, yes of course Your Majesty.”

Cardan promptly forgets the entire exchange, until three days later when Locke corners him in the great hall.

“Cardan,” he says, frowning, “the kitchens say they don’t have any of the supplies needed to host tomorrow’s Midsummer festival.”

Cardan mirrors Locke’s grimace. It is so unusual to see a frown on the face of his Court Entertainer – he takes a moment to savor the expression. Then he replies,

“What do you mean they have no supplies? Haven’t you been planning this for weeks?”

“Yes!” Lock says, confusion bleeding away into irritation. “That’s what makes this so intolerable. All they told me in the kitchen was that they’d been ordered to procure only the usual amount of food. Nothing in the order for festivities.”

“Ah,” Cardan says, schooling his expression so as not to betray any hint of guilt.

“They’ve never had a problem before,” Locke says. “Someone important in their supply chain must have either died or moved on.”

Moved on, Cardan thinks to himself, but most certainly still alive.

“There’s nothing to do but postpone the ceremony.” Locke continues. “I’ll make arrangements. What an embarrassment.”

He shoots Cardan a sharp glance and adds, “For both of us.”

The next day, Cardan pays a visit to the kitchen. He finds the hobgoblin head chef supervising a trio of pixies chopping carrots for soup. He pulls the fairy aside and said,

“From now on, you’re in charge of supply down here. Make sure we have what we need. What authority my previous seneschal maintained is now yours.”

The hobgoblin bows. “As Your Majesty commands.”

\--- --- ---

Little responsibilities keep cropping up. Things Cardan assumed simply _happened_ were apparently part of a house of cards balanced precariously upon one sharp tongued human. He lays off responsibility for organizing the castle guard onto his newly appointed head of security—

_“Who’s been here the longest?” Cardan demanded of the gathered palace guard. They’d looked around dubiously, and finally one of the Tuatha women stepped forward. There was a jagged scar that cut across her forehead and part of her cheek, but her gaze was sharp and her voice steady._

_“That would be me, Your Majesty.”_

_“Excellent. You’re the new chief of security. Set the schedules and organize the rotations. Keep the palace safe or your head will be my next gift to appease the Sea Queen.”_

—and similarly for housekeeping, stables, and gardening. Why on earth Jude had wanted regular updates on the palace _gardens_ , of all things, was beyond him. He throws out promotions like candy until bit by bit he started to find pockets of time again in which _no one_ approached him.

He spends that time chasing the bottoms of bottles until he can no longer hear the disapproving voice of the girl he’d banished echoing between his ears.

There is, however, one duty that refuses to be reassigned.

Roach waits for Cardan just outside the door of his chambers. Cardan heaves a put upon sigh. Jude’s spooks seldom approach him; honestly he thinks they attempt to keep the kingdom intact more for her legacy than out of any loyalty to the crown.

“Yes, Roach?” he says, a bit impatiently. Its nearly noon – he’s overslept and skipped breakfast.

“The council meets this afternoon, my King,” Roach says. “Do you require any briefing in advance?”

Roach had, Cardan knows, been the best of Dain’s misfits when it came to overhearing bits of particularly useful information.

“Not interested,” Cardan says, moving to brush past him.

Roach moves ever so slightly, but in such a way that Cardan must either veer sharply to avoid hitting him or actively push Roach out of his path. Cardan does neither, and pauses instead.

“Isn’t it _my_ council?”

Roach hesitates. “Well, yes…technically.”

“Then today’s meeting is cancelled. And all further meetings postponed indefinitely.”

Roach sighs. “I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

Cardan raises a brow. He’s missing something, he’s certain of it, but it galls him to have to ask. Roach purses his lips, then says,

“If Your Majesty will follow me.”

Cardan’s stomach chooses that moment to let out a loud grumble. Roach sighs. “After lunch,” he allows.

“You’re too kind,” Cardan says acerbically. He is the _king_ , damn it, and ought not to be treated like a child in need of remedial tutoring.

Lunch is a hasty affair, with Roach standing over his shoulder and the kitchen servants hovering over him, jumping at his every movement. There’s no one else eating, and he supposes he’s keeping them from their own lunch. He pushes back from the table and turns to Roach.

“Lay on, Macduff.”

Roach blinks. “Excuse me?”

Cardan sighs. “Never mind. Let’s go.”

Roach leads him to – of all places – Jude’s study. What _had been_ Jude’s study, Cardan amends. Even if it is only to himself. The Bomb is waiting there for them, perched on Jude’s desk.

“I expected you an hour ago,” she says, hopping off the desk and giving Roach a look.

Roach doesn’t answer. He turns to Cardan instead and says, “We can speak freely here. There are wards against eavesdropping.”

Cardan raises an eyebrow. “What do you have to say that would be worth overhearing?”

Roach pauses, then says, “May I speak plainly, Your Majesty?”

“You may,” Cardan says, bemused.

“You’re causing chaos in the palace security systems,” Roach says bluntly. “By farming out every important task that you find tedious to those with minimal loyalty to you and little incentive to protect your interests.”

Cardan blinks. “Important tasks? You mean grocery lists? _Garden_ _inventories?_ ”

“From where do you think,” the Bomb says quietly, “we are able to procure antidotes to Faerie’s deadliest poisons? Not by purchasing them, certainly.”

“And how,” Roach adds, “do you expect to notice an unfamiliar and out of place item on your supper table when you have no idea what should be there in the first place?”

“ _That’s_ why Jude was running all those menial tasks herself?” Cardan says in disbelief. “To prevent assassination attempts?”

“You will note,” Roach says, “the impressive fact of your head remaining quite firmly attached to your shoulders.”

Cardan shakes his head. “I don’t have time for all that.”

Roach shrugs. “You need a seneschal. If not Jude, another whom you trust. These things cannot be left to your nameless staff.”

_You thought it would be easy?_ Jude’s voice says triumphantly in his head. _You have_ no idea _what you’re in for. You’ll be begging me to come back by solstice._

_No,_ Cardan thinks at her, _I will not. I will manage without you. I have done so before._

“Fine,” he says aloud to Roach and the Bomb. “I’ll find someone.”

And he leaves quickly, before either of them can make the suggestion he knows they’re biting back behind clenched teeth.

\--- --- ---

Grudgingly, at the appointed time, Cardan makes his way into the council chambers. He’s the last to arrive, and the assembled eye him warily. He hasn’t made a habit of attending anything that would even remotely resemble work; to this group, he’s a wild card. One they think they might easily tame, judging by the postures of some.

The empty chair that he assumes would normally seat Madoc is a gaping hole in the circle. He turns away from it deliberately and throws himself down at the head of the table.

“Well?”

There are collective blinks of surprise. This is probably not, Cardan thinks with amusement, the manner in which Jude opened meetings.

_Obviously._ Her voice is sharp in his head.

“The stars have been restless of late, Your Majesty,” says the Royal Astrologer. Boffin? Baphen? Probably the latter. “Times of great change are upon us.”

The Seelie minister looks a bit smug. The Unseelie minister glowers. Cardan wishes fleetingly that he’d allowed Roach to provide that briefing. There are undercurrents here that he doesn’t understand, and he’s afraid one wrong step will pull him straight into the undertow.

_Just keep it brief today. Say little. Agree to nothing. Come to the next meeting actually prepared._

Cardan wonders what it says about his relationship with Jude that even when he’s inventing their conversations, she sounds exasperated with him. But the advice, at least, is sound.

“Yes,” Cardan says, “I’ve been quite busy managing new alliances, new adversaries, staff turnover, etc.”

All eyes go to Madoc’s empty seat.

“What recompense do you think to offer the Court of Termites,” the Unseelie minister growls, “for the great offense caused by our new allies in the Selkie Court?”

“Why, surely no reparations are required,” the Seelie minister says, jumping in with relish. “After all, no one was killed. Well, no one of importance, that is.”

She grins wickedly, and the Unseelie minister turns a foreboding shade of puce.

_Put a stop to this_ now _, before one of them loses their head. Literally._

“That’s quite enough,” Cardan says quietly.

They all pause and turn to look at him. He stands.

“As I said, it has been extremely busy of late. I don’t have time for veiled threats and in-house squabbles. Please prepare a written summary of the items you’d intended to discuss at today’s meeting and have them sent to –”

He pauses and almost stumbles over the words. Not to Jude, not anymore.

“—sent to my chambers. We will review them in a fortnight at the next meeting. Dismissed.”

He retreats as quickly as dignity will allow, before any of them can think to call him back with some urgent matter of national security.

_That…could have gone worse. But now you’ll actually have to_ read _their reports; they’ll expect not to have to explain anything to you next time._

Cardan shrugs off her warning. He’ll have the Roach review the reports.

_How much do you trust Roach? He was one of mine, after all._

This gives him pause. But not for long – Roach and the Bomb, he is confident, will not let the kingdom fall to pieces. Not while there is any chance Jude may come back and take hold of the reins once more. They know her as well as Cardan does – there’s no way she’ll go down without a fight.

He is almost looking forward to it, if for no other reason than to see her face again.

\--- --- ---

Twenty six days, fourteen hours. He’s restless with insomnia.

When he does sleep, he dreams of Jude. Sometimes she’s glaring at him, frustrated by the show of incompetence he puts on when seated on the throne at her side. Sometimes she’s rail thin and trembling, hair still damp from the sea and eyes terrifyingly vulnerable when they meet his own. Sometimes she smiles up at him, head pillowed on his shoulder and one arm draped around his waist.

Sometimes, she doesn’t look at him at all. These are the worst dreams. He wakes in cold sweat, hands shaking. If there’s someone else in the bed beside him on these nights, he wakes them too and curtly shows them out.

The nights that start and end with the same person in his bed become few and far between.

Locke – somehow – finds out. But then, Cardan’s not really surprised. Locke has always taken a “what’s yours is mine” attitude toward privacy in their friendship.

“Nicasia is getting her hopes up,” Locke comments one day in the supper hall.

Cardan raises a brow. “About?”

“You, of course,” Locke says easily. “Chatter among the ladies is that you haven’t taken more than four women to bed in the past month, and only one of them stayed through the night.”

Cardan shrugs. “A dry spell in interesting women around court this month. I expect it will pass. Your Midsummer Festival is coming up, is it not?”

Locke smiles. “Indeed. But I’m not certain the woman you seek will be in attendance.”

Cardan looks up sharply from his plate. “There is no one in particular that I seek. Or are you planning to disinvite _all_ women from your festivities?”

Its Locke’s turn to shrug. “Of course not.”

There’s a brief pause, then Locke stands and excuses himself with a shallow bow. “I’m sure we will find something to amuse you, Your Majesty,” he throws over his shoulder on his way out.

Cardan has a sinking feeling in his stomach. He buries it and calls for more wine. Another bottle in, and he sends a page to summon the visiting Lady Ilariya to his room.

That night, with the slender pale haired girl asleep at his side, he dreams of Jude in the Undersea. She’s caged, beating her hands bloody against the iron bars. Nicasia and Balekin stand in front of the cage and laugh. Nicasia turns her head and looks straight at him, inviting him to join in the merriment. Jude’s gaze follows, and Cardan’s mind doesn’t even have to invent the betrayal and hurt he sees cross her face. He’s seen it before – the day he threw her out of Faerie.

Cardan wakes with a gasp, jarring the woman beside him. She grumbles sleepily. Cardan ignores her; gets out of bed and pulls on his dressing robe.

“Get me Roach,” he snaps to the guard hovering outside the door. The guard looks surprised.

“Here, to your chambers, my King?”

“No.” Cardan pauses. “To my study.”

If he’s going to see Jude every time he closes his eyes, he might as well keep them open for something useful.

\--- --- ---

Thirty eight days, five hours. The Council is in session once more. This time, Cardan is the first to arrive.

Fala the Fool is next, and she pauses in obvious surprise when she sees him. She covers it poorly with an extravagant bow – Cardan smirks and lets her hold it far beyond what courtesy would dictate.

The Seelie and Unseelie ministers are next, followed by the Astrologer and Minister of Keys. Each pause, their eyes catching on him as they enter. They bow perfunctorily, gestures entirely devoid of respect. Cardan grinds his teeth to keep from scowling.

_Careful,_ Jude cautions him. _You’ve prepared for this. Don’t waste it on a temper tantrum._

He imagines her standing beside him, one hand casually on her sword. Alert, yet somehow also relaxed. It gives him a brush of confidence.

He waits until they’ve all taken their seats to stand up, so he can look down on them. It’s the right aesthetic for this conversation. Imaginary Jude is cracking her knuckles in anticipation.

“There has been far too much dealing in personal interests from those who would call themselves the _King’s_ council.” Cardan puts emphasis on the word and looks directly at the group; watches the Royal Astrologer’s eyes slide away guiltily.

“A few favors here and there can be overlooked – a privilege of position for your service to Faerie. But when it becomes so much that one could say Faerie is in service to _you_ …” Cardan pauses to savor the look of absolute terror on the Astrologist’s face. The rest of the council seems torn between watching their colleague fall to pieces and watching their King tear him apart.

“Well, to me that sounds like treason.” He raises his voice slightly. “Carlin? You’ve prepared a place in the dungeons?”

The Tuatha woman he’d so casually thrown into position as head of his palace guard barely four weeks ago steps forward, smiling viciously.

“Please!” bursts out the Royal Astrologer. “I’ll pay it back, I swear!”

“Oh?” Cardan says pleasantly. “And how do you propose to do that?”

He hesitates, eyes flickering frantically between Cardan and the rest of the Council. Fala looks vaguely queasy, but the Unseelie minister is watching with relish and the rest are stonefaced.

“Get him out of here,” Cardan says coldly.

The Royal Astrologer does not go quietly. Cardan doesn’t even flinch at his sobbing pleas. Jude would have been proud to see--

_No,_ the Jude in his head interrupts, _I would have caught him_ weeks _ago, and never had to make an example of him before the council._

Even in his own head, Cardan thinks ruefully, she never fails to remind him of his place.

Which would have been to rule beside her, if not for the small hiccups of forced obedience and interminable exile.

His good mood is gone in a blink and he scowls at the remainder of the council, now two seats short with no General and no Astrologer.

“That’s enough for today,” he says. “We’ll reconvene next week. I’d thank you all to try and keep your hands out of the royal coffers for at least that long.”

As Cardan strides out, leaving the council in dumbfounded silence behind him, from the corner of his eye he sees the Roach wink.

\--- --- ---

Thirty nine days, ten hours. Locke’s Midsummer festivities are in full swing. The palace halls are teeming with faeries – delegations from the Court of Termites glaring daggers at representatives of the Undersea, Lord Severin raising eyebrows with his human knights, and a beaming Locke presiding over it all.

The steady stream of visitors looking to pay their respects to the crown (and maybe sleep with it too, judging by the looks some of the ladies cast his way) appears never ending. He is reminded, briefly, of the weeks after his coronation when Jude saved him from a marriage of trickery to the daughter of Mother Marrow.

Cardan is not nearly as drunk as he would like to be for this occasion.

He stands abruptly and leaves the dais, ignoring the looks of confusion the remaining well wishers throw his way as he passes. The area around the refreshments looks dangerously crowded with courtiers he’d prefer to avoid – but this is fine, these days he knows where the wine is kept.

This is where she finds him: in the storeroom, leaning against a stack of semi-empty casks and drinking directly from the bottle.

“Well,” she says, amused, “at least you’re not hiding under a table this time. Or dancing on top of one.”

He feels a zing of shock go through him, numbed only slightly by the copious amount of wine he’s had to drink.

“How did you get in?”

She snorts. “Through the door. Locke’s letting just about anyone in these days. Though I’m pretty sure he didn’t know it was me when I passed.”

Cardan’s still not entirely sure he isn’t hallucinating. He’s had more intricate conversations with the Jude who lives in his head – it’s not outside the realm of possibility.

“Are you real?” he demands.

Jude grins and pulls a knife from the inside of her boot. “Want to find out?”

This startles a laugh out of Cardan, and once he starts he can’t stop. Jude’s knife hand wavers.

“Only,” Cardan says when he can finally breathe, “that is exactly what I would expect you to say, and so does nothing at all to answer the question.”

He knows her too well, he thinks, for either of their tastes. Spent years watching her – gauging her reactions, anticipating her challenges and daring comebacks. There is nothing she can do that will surprise him.

...and then the world turns sideways on its axis as Jude steps forward to kiss him.

The press of her lips on his is achingly familiar, and even the knife she’s still pointing vaguely in his direction feels like a missing puzzle piece slotting back into place. He sets the bottle on a nearby crate to slide his hands around her waist.

She pulls away too soon. He chases her lips briefly before he comes back to himself and steps away. 

“Still believe I’m a figment of your imagination?” she asks, slightly breathless.

Cardan shakes his head. “In my head, you mostly criticize. And offer occasionally helpful political commentary.”

Jude throws back her head and laughs. Cardan’s eyes catch on the exposed line of her throat. He can’t remember the last time he saw her looking so carefree.

“Well. Give my regards to Roach and the Bomb. Tell them I’ll be speaking to them shortly.” She turns, as if to leave.

He has to know.

“Wait,” Cardan says. Jude pauses and turns back toward him. “How did you lift the exile?”

Jude rolls her eyes. “I’m the Queen of Faerie. I fucking pardoned myself.”

\--- --- ---

Forty days, six hours. Cardan sits in the study where Jude left all her important papers and notes. The Roach leans against a bookcase in the corner, smiling to himself, leaving no doubt he’s already had conversations with a certain no longer exiled individual. Cardan can’t tell if the pressure in his chest is anticipation or fear.

The Bomb slips in and closes the door behind her.

The Roach looks at her. “Well?”

She nods. “Madoc’s issued a formal challenge to the High King’s succession to the throne. He claims it was coerced and neither the crowner nor the recipient were willing participants at the coronation.”

The Roach raises his eyebrows. “On whose evidence?”

The Bomb meets Cardan’s eyes. “His daughter. The former seneschal.”

Cardan leans back in Jude’s chair and stares at the ceiling. The pressure in his chest has morphed into something else entirely – he smiles. Roach and the Bomb exchange glances; clearly, they expected him to be more concerned about this attempt to delegitimize his reign. But he can’t truly bring himself to care about that now – she’s _here_. In Faerie. And he has another chance.

_Welcome back, Jude._


End file.
